Loss is a peculiar feeling.
There is a certain silence that follows.
A silence, so quiet, that it is loud.
I rehearse what I would say to you.
If I could see you one last time,
with my face tilted into the stream of water,
falling from the shower head.
There are things I never said.
Like how I would have chosen you,
even when it was inconvenient,
even when it hurts.
It feels as if I am submerged,
beneath the surface of my thoughts.
As people speak, I nod and I answer.
But inside my head
is your name that echoes,
and our last conversation that replays.
It is like trying to breathe,
through something thick yet invisible.
There is a version of us that now only exists in my memories.
I live in the space after you,
but before I learned how to be without you.
Love does not disappear just because it has nowhere to go anymore.
It lingers, suspended.
Not held, yet not returned.
So I let the water run, let it blur my face.
Hope it hides the fact that I am still practicing sentences
I will never get to speak.
There are things I never said,
and now I will never.
Because that would mean you are still reachable.
I find the hardest part about loss is learning,
you are not.
UF PRISM 